


One Feather Dress

by Petyrs



Series: Birds of a Feather [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood Play, F/M, Sexual Tension, Show-based AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petyr seeks answers and renewed control after an astonishing lie from Sansa, yet it seems neither is willing to cease surprising the other quite yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Feather Dress

“Come in.”

He closed the door more swiftly than he opened it, though Sansa could still note the missing cream and blue cloaks of Lady Arryn’s guard. _His_ guard now, truculent lords appeased and slumbering in preparation for what long journey lay ahead. A chill ran down her spine, errant ice water seeping from atop the Eyrie to pool just behind her hips; how little they would have required, to throw Baelish from the same gaping maw. They might have helped her, poor, missing Sansa Stark, should the truth come out. Yet when her lady mother had plead for help, did the Vale rise up beside King Robb? Did its knights and bannermen cry out with indignant rage when news of the Twins trickled southward?

_No_.

Instead those brave men scurried back into their mountainous keeps, leaving House Stark broken, alone, and increasingly isolated across the months. _Only Petyr saved me_ , she thought, all the while knowing it was only a half-truth. Still wed, still tarnished as traitor and kingslayer, she would never fully escape the shadows of her past unless Baelish had another clever lie to absolve her. They ran thinner and more ragged with every telling, though: _You’re safe now, and sailing home. I loved your mother. I love your Aunt Lysa. You must be my **daughter** , even in your heart_. **_Suicide_**. Sansa trusted only his duplicity, the Mockingbird’s proclivity for trilling out another’s song.

But Sansa was learning as well; songs of strength instead of weakness, shedding dove’s plumage for an avian less docile. Her stitching continued whilst he advanced down the narrow hall, one feather then another spreading like some soft, oily stain across the bodice. She could feel him staring, assessing, silently reconnoitering whether it was best to speak or be spoken to. Questions crowded the small bedchamber, pressing at her temples and winding into her lungs. Sansa tried to keep them squashed down, lips cutting a thin line: _I won’t speak. He came to me, let him confide, rather than command_. Gray haze crept in along the edges of her sight. Though she watched a silvery needle bob and surface across the gown, it was with a hovering detachment, so that with one swoop —

“Ah!”

About to speak, Petyr shut his mouth as brows furrowed in the smallest show of concern. Sansa brought her guiding hand out from beneath the fabric, a blossoming carmine bead welling up on one finger. For a long moment, she could do naught but stare. Was there much blood, the girl wondered, when Lysa crashed upon the mountain’s face? Did carrion birds nibble at her corpse, or was the aftermath as _clean_ as the execution, a few tatters of gown all that betrayed the Lady of the Vale’s gruesome fate? She could not linger overlong on such macabre fascinations —in the ensuing silence the Lord advanced, ring’d hand extended to survey unintentional injury. As if partnering for a dance her hand slipped, palm up, into his. With a gentle pressure Petyr bid her to stand, holding both their hands aloft for inspection.

”Your aunt failed to bequeath you a thimble, I see,” he admonished, peering at the wound. “Distracted, were you?”

Sansa shook her head, hurriedly; they had not stood so close since the courtyard, cold fingers touching cold cheeks with frightening delicacy. In her haste the girl tried to pull her hand free, a motion which disturbed that perfect ruby globe, sending a rivulet down one knuckle, then a second. Too quickly for premeditation Petyr clasped her wrist, pulled her hand and, by necessity, Sansa closer, and swept up the injured digit into the warm seclusion of his mouth.

Shocking enough on its own, such an act, made all the more assertive by the steady, unflinching hold malachite kept to startled blue. His tongue was a wet rasp over unblemished skin, curling first around the thin dribble dislodged by her startlement; then it trailed upward, coursing softly over the minuscule prick in her fingerpad. Sansa could feel him suck, then lave, then suck again, clearing away any lingering stain. All the while Baelish stared at her, almost as if he dared her to cry out in protest…or step closer with curious permission.

The girl chose neither. Instead she pulled back, away from him, away from the tongue once felt sweeping against chill, unwilling lips. _You let him touch you before_ , a voice whispered. _You shared his bed and let his fingers between your legs. Little wonder he acts so boldly now. Lysa could see it in you, a **whore’s** nature; keeping your mouth shut and letting him take it as **permission**_. Except he hadn’t. Petyr failed to touch her again in their entire voyage, though she felt his hungry, plaintive looks as they readied for sleep. Nothing, absolutely nothing, passed between them until that morning in the Eyrie’s godswood, and now, shut away in her little room without even a guard to interrupt.

Desperate to draw free, Sansa left a crimson smear across his lower lip. It shone brightly in the wavering candlelight of early evening, a stunning banner memorializing her foolhardiness. She stood transfixed, fingers curling between them whilst she waited: for Petyr to produce a handkerchief and wipe it away, to dart his tongue out and lick, to do anything that would clear away the unintentional mark.

He took a sharp breath, heels tapping on scrubbed stone as Baelish closed the narrow space between them. Then, he kissed her. Close-mouthed, as in the snow, caging Sansa against him with one hand at the small of her back, another curling in the downy hairs at her nape. Was it the blood of Winterfell she tasted, salty and thin, in the embrace? Or just a bastard girl, too small and scared to speak out?

This time when he begged entrance, she succumbed. Sansa had to _know_ , had to taste herself and understand at last who she was. On his tongue her essence turned richer, a heady mixture of copper and iron and _life_ that overwhelmed all else. _I am strong_. Sansa moaned. A small, private sound betraying her pleasure not in Petyr’s kiss, but the autonomy seemingly stolen, then returned ten-fold. Baelish heard it differently, grip tightening until the girl stood captive against him. Emboldened, his tongue slipped further into her mouth; she wanted more, wanted to know what flavor _they_ would take if such indiscretion continued, and so Sansa leant against him.

For several moments the pair stood, statuesque, only their mouths working. When Petyr felt certain she would not pull away his hold relaxed, just so much that he could guide Sansa backwards with short, shuffling steps until her spine fell flush against the wall. She paid no mind, chin tipping for her tongue to delve deeper, seeking out every last secret he might breathe. Yet under red-stained salt Sansa found only mint, and the faint, musky taste of man. Nothing personal, no telling intimacy to bind the conspirators as one.

Baelish’s _flesh_ , however, betrayed him. Against one leg she felt him stiffen just as on the _Merling King_. Nor was Sansa immune, despite her quest; wetness grew between her thighs, reminding her of another night, another sealed chamber. A slight shift fitted them together, one of his legs between hers. In that way she could move her hips against him in a halting emulation of what Petyr’s fingers once did. He exercised the same flagrant disregard, fingers a bruising press as he moved himself in subtle drag over the skirts of her gown.

It didn’t matter.

_It was only flesh, after all_. And Sansa wanted _more_.

Her hands brushed over a doublet embroidered with leaves and blossoms, quietly ostentatious, fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. Then it was Sansa who held Petyr captive, keeping him pressed close as, without pretense or warning, wolf’s teeth nipped out and drew their own offering. Baelish jerked, and growled, a low, indistinct rumbling deep between his ribs, pressing hard against the girl. But he never pulled away. Sansa could _taste_ him now. It should have been different, for all the small, telling divergences between Stark and Baelish; and yet, no distinction made itself readily known. A faint unfamiliarity lingered — _This isn’t mine!_ her body cried —but there was still the metal and the salt,  the simple components which, at their core, seemed to promise they were fundamentally the _same_.

It incensed her, that similarity. She was not his daughter, nor even his _friend_ ; how dare Petyr fail to prove that in his most intrinsic parts. He _had_ to be different! Sansa suckled roughly on the ragged tear, nails starting to dig into his scalp. There was still only blood, and anger. Petyr returned her frustration in kind, crushing the girl between himself and the wall, grinding his hips against her as though intending to bring them both to completion again. The kiss broke, paired groans echoing through the cramped room. Sansa could feel a coiling start in her belly, forcing her breath to quicken, her pelvis to drag heavily over the obliging leg shoved against it.

Suddenly she stumbled, faltering against the wall as Petyr jerked away. Blood never mattered to the Mockingbird, just red effluvium coursing through a man’s body. _Control_ did. And Sansa stole it as readily as what she truly sought. At first she failed to understand, Tully eyes flitting across his face for some sign of wrongdoing. Revelation came soon enough, straightening her back and smoothing into place the porcelain mask fitted long ago. Though Baelish tugged his doublet smooth she could still make out his cock, a faint bulge under the fabric. Sansa looked up, to his mouth. _I did that. I marked you and made you weak_.

Not weak enough. Petyr had pulled away, stopped them both. And he had frightened her as well, though he might not know it, with those paired wounds. _We taste the same. We **are** the same_.

”Tidy yourself,” he muttered, swiping delicately at where his lip had barely begun to swell. Her finger did not even throb any more, soothed by Petyr’s attentions. Sansa wished it would hurt, a private victory she loathed giving him. “We descend this coming morn.” Nothing else remained, decorum solidly returned, save to sketch out a shallow curtsy, nod with understanding, and watch with downcast eyes as Baelish left in a swirl of brocade. But he wasn’t gone, just as Sansa did not quite remain in her room. Each carried a little of the other inside them now, a ghostly flavor of truth lingering beneath the lies.

**Author's Note:**

> A long overdue prompt fill! It's been quite a long while since I've had the right combination of motivation, inspiration, and free time to produce something for AO3, so feedback is deeply appreciated!


End file.
